Life Revised
by whitherthen
Summary: Faith sends Buffy a letter requesting a visit.
1. Default Chapter

TITLE: Life Revised  
  
AUTHOR: isisgoddess2000  
  
EMAIL: isisgoddess2000@hotmail.com  
  
RATING: R for language.  
  
SPOILERS: Anything and everything Faith, general knowledge of Season 6 events through Normal Again.  
  
SUMMARY: Faith sends Buffy a letter, requesting a visit.  
  
FEEDBACK: Yes please!  
  
DISCLAIMER: Joss, Mutant Enemy, Fox, etc. own all, not me.  
  
DISTRIBUTION: Please ask first.  
  
  
  
The letter came without warning. In the middle of life, or getting back to it. Things starting to slip into place, routine, the daily grind. But it was good… sort of. Then this. With no explanation. Just some directions and instructions for visitors, and a little post-it note: "Please come. June 9, 2:00. It's important. Faith." Cryptic much? Even ignoring the obvious; visiting a prison? In L.A.? Setting foot in that city never ended well. If this visit took place, and that's a big if, there had to be some ground rules. No dad, no Angel. There and back, day trip, no stops. Better not to think about it, because it wouldn't be happening anyway. Probably. Maybe. Besides, what could be so important? Knowing Faith… But that was the point, right? Of prison? It had been two years. She had only first met the younger slayer three and a half years ago. People change. She had confessed, gone willingly. And there was no doubt in Buffy's mind that Faith could have left that place any time she wanted to. Slayer strength. Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. Anyway, all that old anger? It was the habit of another girl. One who was self- righteous and sure which lines weren't to be crossed. That Buffy would never visit the younger slayer in prison. But this Buffy, the resurrected one, she just might. She might have some things to say to Faith.  
  
And it was this line of thinking that led her to this place, these halls, remembering the smell of the truck, the feel of the shackles when the council had kidnapped her. As Faith. Wondering what it must be to spend years inside these walls. Buzzing, clanking, yelling… crying? And these were the sound of a Sunday afternoon, being led through hallways as to avoid the general population on the way to the infirmary. Was she sick, injured, dying? Time to play confessor to a fevered last utterance? And had Faith repented enough to earn peace afterward? Jesus, shut the fuck up with that! To think that, to propel it into being… just stop. But keeping the mind racing helps to block out the other things that threaten to surface, memories of a different time, a different life, a different girl. But they were both different now. How far to the goddamn infirmary anyway? Twists, turns, halls, sliding metal doors…  
  
"Here you go." Said the guard. They had stopped in the middle of a hallway, a row of doors, glass on top. Blinds closed. "You go on in and I'll be at the end of the hall. There's a red button on the wall next to the bed. Press it and a nurse will come running."  
  
"Will you?" Mouth so dry she wasn't sure how the words had managed to come out. And were her palms sweaty?  
  
"That won't be necessary."  
  
"Is she… handcuffed?" Sure, jump to your death with hardly a second thought, but visit some girl who'd tried to kill you – and vice-versa – and lose your lunch. Makes sense. Perfect Buffy-world sense.  
  
The guard chuckled. "No."  
  
"And you'll be down the hall? All the way… there?" Of course, Faith wasn't just some girl. Let's at least be honest about that much.  
  
Another chuckle. "Nervous?"  
  
"No! Not… nervous. Just… cautious. Track record and all."  
  
"Trust me, she's not getting out of that bed."  
  
And with that the guard left. Shoes squeaking as she walked, keys tinkling together, clanking as they collided with the nightstick hooked into her belt. A turn into the small office they had passed, and Buffy was alone. Guess that guard didn't know what had happened the last time someone said Faith would never get out of a bed. Why had she decided to come here?  
  
Forcing all those thoughts away, mind deliciously blank as she stepped toward the door, slayer senses going at full throttle. She had known Faith was in this room the moment she entered the prison. Could have closed her eyes and still found her way down this hall. She shut them now, attempting to pick up any sound on the other side of the door. Girl in the next room praying, rosary clicking amidst the whispers. Coughing and wheezing at the end of the hall. The guard singing under her breath in that tiny office as she started her paperwork. But from this room… heart monitor beeping. Very fast. Very, very fast. A slayer's heart was slower, big muscle from all the fighting (killing), taking its time to circulate blood. God, something was wrong here.  
  
And it hit her quite suddenly that Faith knew she was standing there. That slayer sense wasn't hers alone. That the same action was being performed on the other side of this glass – listening, waiting. And waiting seemed pointless now. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and stepped into the room.  
  
"Wondered how long you were gonna stand out there."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
TBC 


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimers and fic info live at Chapter 1.  
  
  
  
"Jesus!" It was the only word she could get out. Didn't know why, it never meant anything to her before, but now it flashed in her brain like a neon sign.  
  
She had leaned against the door without meaning to, searching for some additional support. Slight stumble backward as it closed, but comforting to have something solid against her back. Knees were a bit wobbly. This is what shock feels like.  
  
With visible effort, Buffy stood up straight and took a step forward, hand to her mouth for a moment, prompting words. "Holy God, you're pregnant."  
  
"Can't put anything past you, B. Why don't you pull up a chair? Looks like you need to get off your feet for a minute." Buffy just nodded mutely, moving toward the back wall, grateful to have a small task to propel her into motion.  
  
This was turning out like a bad trip; she had seen this already. Faith lying in a hospital bed, head propped up by pillows, IV dripping, heart monitor… beeping? But it wasn't really the same, was it? Difference of bruises and internal injuries, gaping wounds to the gut. And that heart monitor wasn't beeping, it was thudding, very fast, and it wasn't hers, but the baby's-? The baby's heart beating as she listened. Pregnant. A baby living in Faith's body.  
  
Chair looked comfy, pretty nice considering the rest of this place, so she pulled it closer to the bed and gratefully sat. Pushed hair out of her face that wasn't really there. Hands in lap, ankles crossed. Deep breath.  
  
"There's a pitcher of water if you –"  
  
"No thanks. I'm good." She squirmed a bit in the chair, uncomfortable at her proximity to this girl she hadn't seen in two years. Never been so close to a pregnant person before. Of course, never been to a prison before. Life, version 3.0. Next time she came back from the dead, she'd scale Mount Everest. Just to keep up.  
  
"Not… really sure what to say here." Understatement. Major understatement. One that warranted a smile from the dark-haired slayer.  
  
"I figured. That's okay. I should be doing all the talking anyway."  
  
"Works for me. You go right ahead." Best course of action. Too much strangeness, waiting anxiously to hear what Faith had to say. Couldn't drag her eyes away from that bulging stomach. God, she looked like she was ready to explode. "When are you due?"  
  
"I'm having a C-section on Wednesday."  
  
"Jesus!"  
  
"Expecting him to answer or something?"  
  
"Funny."  
  
"'Cause ya know, when you talk to God, it's called prayer, but when God talks to you, it's called schizophrenia."  
  
That did it. They were laughing. Together. Briefly, lasting only a moment or two, but it happened. And it seemed… perfectly normal. Like it had always been this way. Like things had never gone horribly wrong. Although in their fucked-up lives, what's a little attempted murder between slayers? But this act, this scene? All out of character. That girl, in that bed, could never be a mother. And this girl, sitting here in this chair, shouldn't even be here. Shouldn't be laughing with this girl who… well, the why is fairly obvious. But the anger just wouldn't come. And even if it did, yelling at someone lying in a prison infirmary, positively glowing with pregnancy?  
  
"I really shouldn't laugh. I might piss myself."  
  
"That happen often?"  
  
"Pregnancy does weird things to the body."  
  
"Is… something wrong? I mean, why do you have to have a Cesarean?"  
  
"Slayers were built for battle, not having babies. There's this whole medical explanation thing, hips not wide enough, weak uterine wall-"  
  
"Thanks, I get it. Makes you wonder how the other slayers did it, though. Before surgery."  
  
"They didn't, Buffy. I'm the first."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I'm the first slayer to have a baby."  
  
"How do you know that?"  
  
"If you think about it, it makes sense. We've lived longer than most of them. And I'm probably the only one away from the front lines this long. There were entries in the Watchers' Diaries about slayers having miscarriages, but no one else went to term."  
  
"Who told you this?"  
  
"Quinton Travers."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
TBC 


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimers and story info live at Chapter 1.  
  
  
  
"Quinton? You've talked to Quinton? I guess that shouldn't surprise me. He always shows up when you don't expect it."  
  
"No shit. By the way – nice job, B. You've got him by the balls. All of them."  
  
What the hell did Quinton have to do with anything? Come to check out the latest exhibit of the slayer freak show? Or abscond with the exhibit in hand? "You shouldn't trust him. He and I may be on agreeable terms now, but what he did to me, had Giles do to me-"  
  
"I was there, remember? You told me all about it. Cruciamentum. And I don't trust him. I was as shocked as you are when he showed up. But he got me this private room, a doctor who knows about a slayer's anatomy, and he got you in. I mean, it's almost impossible to get a new visitor approved. Especially to the infirmary. Risk factor."  
  
"Quinton didn't just come by with "A Slayer's Guide to Pregnancy" and a box of diapers. There's more to this than you're telling me."  
  
"Yeah, there's more. A lot more. Hope that chair is comfortable. But first – I've got to get up for a minute." With that Faith threw back the thin white sheet and slowly swung her legs over to the side of the bed. Toes barely touched the floor. She leaned back a bit on her hands, counterbalancing the weight in front. "You know what I really miss?"  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"Being able to paint my toenails. No nail polish allowed here. Not that I could anyway. I don't even remember what my feet look like. Isn't that strange?"  
  
"Oh, that's strange? Let me tell you a little story about strange. It all starts with a cryptic letter in the mail…"  
  
"Yeah, well, what should I have written? 'Got knocked up, come to L.A. and hear all about it?' Besides, I can do cryptic. I'm good at it. You can't have multiple watchers and not learn a thing or two about cryptic."  
  
"True. I thought you weren't supposed to be getting out of that bed."  
  
"Not without a nurse, but I need some water."  
  
"You stay put. I'll get the water." She stood, grabbed the pitcher from the stand at the foot of the bed, and filled the little dixie cup beside it. "This going to be enough?" Raised eyebrows as she handed the cup to Faith.  
  
"Yeah, thanks. I have to pace myself. Don't want to head out to the bathroom just yet. And when did you learn how to play nursemaid?"  
  
"Got some practice with my mom."  
  
At this the younger slayer's shoulders dropped, eyes glued to the floor as Buffy reclaimed her chair. "I know coming from me, it's- And I know I shouldn't even- But I am so sorry about your mom. Joyce was… I'm sorry."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
Faith sighed heavily and shook her head. "I should've been there last year. Glory was a two-slayer job."  
  
"Angel fill you in on that?"  
  
"He gave me the play-by-play. But I knew. I felt it in my gut when it happened, when you jumped. I sat up in bed and knew you were gone." Two pair of eyes briefly locked. "Must be a slayer thing. Did you know when the other-?"  
  
"No."  
  
The room filled with unspoken words as the fetal monitor continued to thud quietly. The shock had worn off; situation blazing in reality, but a surreal quality remained. Remorseful Faith? She'd caught a glimmer of it before, thrust back into her own body at the church… Not that this was any stranger than a pregnant Faith.  
  
"There's some things I need to say to you. About before."  
  
"You don't have to-"  
  
"God dammit, B!" Okay, this was a little more familiar. "How can you just sit there? Why did you even come here? Don't you want to scream or yell, or at least tell me to fuck off?!"  
  
Shadow of a smile passed across her face before answering. "Maybe I should. But when I was… gone, I was at peace. And all of it, with you, it was finished. That anger died with me." Even a resurrected Buffy was surprised to hear these words. The dead girl inside, clinging desperately to memories and rage, shrunk back a bit more. Maybe this would be the final blow to send her packing.  
  
The strangeness only multiplied as Faith attempted to discreetly wipe a tear from her cheek. "Pregnancy hormones. Fuck."  
  
Smile came to light. "You really should watch the language, you know. That baby has ears."  
  
"Well, she's heard it all by now."  
  
"Jesus. She?"  
  
  
  
  
  
TBC 


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimers and story info live at Chapter 1, although at this point I'm adding a F/B 'ship warning. This fic may end up heading in that direction, and I don't want to get flamed if I forget later, so here it is.  
  
  
  
"Yeah. I'm having a girl."  
  
"A slayer?"  
  
"Don't know. But the doctor tells me that genetically, there's a good chance."  
  
"So this is why Quinton is involved." Statement instead of question: things starting to fall into place. Sort of.  
  
"Partly."  
  
"God, this is like putting together a puzzle, only it has a million pieces and no edges. Can we drop the cryptic?"  
  
"All right." Faith repositioned herself on the bed, settling into her original position. "Let's start with Father Ted."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"The baby's father. He was the prison chaplain."  
  
"Huh. You didn't actually, you know, do it in the confessional, did you? Not that I'm religious or anything, but that would just be wrong."  
  
Brief smile. "No. We don't have the little bare-your-soul-booths here. Just an office."  
  
"So the priest here isn't exactly a holy man. What a shocker."  
  
"No. He's a seer. And he's Council."  
  
"I know I must sound like a broken record, but what?"  
  
"They wanted to know if and when I would be back on the front lines, so they sent some kind of psychic here to track my progress. Of course, I didn't know that until after I fucked him."  
  
"How did you manage to sleep with a Watcher's Council psychic?"  
  
"What, you don't remember my various charms?"  
  
"Yeah, smart move on their part, sending somebody who would be able to see through the Faith bravado."  
  
"Believe me, I'm fresh out of bravado. Have been for a while now."  
  
"Then what do you call it? You've had a brave little front going since I got here, making jokes and casually mentioning the council. So let's cut through the bullshit. What's really going on?"  
  
The younger slayer shifted uncomfortably in her bed. Painfully short fingernails itching at the tape which secured the IV to her hand. And the look Buffy hadn't seen in years, the one that indicated secrets behind the eyes, words dying to be spoken. She had never gotten past that look. No great revelations; always forced to guess at what lay hidden beneath.  
  
"They want my baby."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"The council."  
  
"I don't understand."  
  
"As long as I'm in prison, the courts won't find me fit to be a mother. They'll let me have a week with her, while I'm in recovery, but that's it. I have to give my baby up. And the council… they want to adopt her."  
  
"Adopt your child? Faith, they'll teach her to be-"  
  
"Like us. I know. But she's the child of a slayer and a powerful psychic. What're the chances she won't be like us; have some kind of powers? The council may be shady, but they would never make her feel like some freak of nature. She would get training and education, the best of everything. They have power and influence, B. They can make it happen."  
  
"Then why can't they get you out? Giles said they're the best at 'pulling the political strings'. Why can't they get you early parole or something?"  
  
"They can. Quinton offered to take me and the baby back to England."  
  
Buffy stood up quickly, pushing the chair back. "Then why don't you go? This is… I mean, this is your chance to be free! To raise your child and be happy! Why don't you take it?"  
  
"How could I be a mother now? What would I have to offer a child? What if the old me came creeping up, looking to have a good time? This isn't a vacation, Buffy, I'm working at redemption, and I'm not even close." Faith wiped her eyes angrily before the tears could escape. "Diapers and bottles and tucking her into bed would make me forget everything I've done, and I don't deserve it."  
  
Stunned silence. Buffy lowered herself back into the chair, struggling for her next words. "What about a normal couple? Why not let some anonymous couple adopt her?"  
  
"What would happen the first time she read someone's mind? Or came home one night going on about vampires? Not everyone's parents can be Jonathon and Martha Kent."  
  
"I know that. But the council? There's got to be another option."  
  
"There is one more option." Faith said slowly. "It's actually Quinton's suggestion. I told him it was a long-shot, but he didn't think so."  
  
"What?"  
  
"You, Buffy."  
  
"Me what?"  
  
"You could adopt my baby."  
  
  
  
  
  
TBC  
  
And remember – feedback nourishes the writer's soul! 


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimers and story info located at Chapters 1 and 4.  
  
  
  
"What?"  
  
"You could-"  
  
"No, I heard what you said, I just mean – What?" Buffy stood up, trying hard to comprehend the request that had been laid before her. "Faith, this is-"  
  
"I know."  
  
"No, I don't think you do. This is just… this is too much. I gotta get out of here."  
  
"Wait…" Faith's words fell on deaf ears as Buffy opened the door and stepped into the hall. One foot in front of the other as she made her way down to the guard's office.  
  
"I need to go."  
  
"Already? You don't have to sign out until four."  
  
"I'm ready to go now."  
  
"All right. Follow me."  
  
Blindly walking through the halls, guard's keys jingling, doors buzzing and clanking behind, same route in reverse, but it didn't register as such. The only thing she could focus on was getting the hell out of this place, away from a very pregnant Faith and her ungodly request, and there – walking through that door to the parking lot.  
  
"Miss Summers?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"I need you to sign out and turn in your visitor's badge before you leave."  
  
"Oh, yes, I'm sorry." Baby steps to the desk, unclipping the little rectangle claiming "VISITOR" from her shirt. Very grounding, signing her name. Back to reality. Not getting wrapped up in the tearful confessions of a girl she'd tried to kill. Who'd tried to kill her. Whatever.  
  
"You okay?"  
  
"Yeah, fine. Just a little…" A little what?  
  
"I understand." Doubtful. "So we'll see you tomorrow then?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"You're on the list for tomorrow, same time. Actually, you're on here every day at two for the next week."  
  
"Of course I am." Made perfect, Buffy-world sense.  
  
"So, tomorrow then? Miss Summers?" But she was already out the door.  
  
Circled the parking lot twice before realizing Joyce's SUV was right in front. Still couldn't claim it as her own. Had driven it blind for a month before working up the nerve to adjust the mirrors. If she sat in it long enough, she could catch a whiff of her mother's perfume. Especially when opening the glove compartment. Still held her sunglasses, in a flowered case. Now Mom, she would know exactly what to do in this situation. Could say no without questioning herself because of all those years of adult experience. This was a life-altering decision, posed to a girl barely done being a child. One who wasn't even alive a year ago. She was barely raising Dawn, but if it got to be too much, they could let the dishes sit and eat Pringles and oranges for dinner.  
  
"My life is completely fucked." Relationship with Faith was complicated at best, too much warped history to produce rational thought at this juncture. There's a reason no slayer has ever had a child. Expiration date on the package. Next hell-god comes along, two kids orphaned instead of one. And those kinds of thoughts were not allowed to slip in. Ones sounding like this was even a possibility. Responsibilities limited to raising one child, a teenager, who was too much of a handful by herself. Laundry and dishes and sweeping and vacuuming, coupled with nightly slaughter and grueling hours at the Doublemeat Shithole, all equaling no time for anything or anyone else. Just enough money for the basics; no more call- waiting or Quilted Northern. Single-ply at the Summers house. Only Dawn's tearful pleas and a promise to switch to generic brands had stopped the basic cable from being axed.  
  
Keys in ignition. Start car, put in drive, get the fuck out of this parking lot, out of LA. Nothing good ever came from visiting this city. Miles to go, but the long drive home would provide ample opportunity to reason herself out of any nagging doubt. By the time this car pulled into Sixteen-thirty Rivelo, she would be herself again.  
  
That mantra repeated over the next few hours. Music and traffic and miles of freeway attempted to provide distraction from images and memories pounding her brain. The many sides of Faith she had known over the years boiled down to a pregnant girl in a prison infirmary. First time around, she hadn't visited the hospital; not once. Her own handiwork too much to bear witness to, because in the end, she had become Faith, wielding the knife, watching in fascinated horror as it tore through tender flesh. And the big secret, what she had never even admitted to herself, was the rush at the moment of impact, thinking she had taken a life, until the moment was stolen as the brunette tossed herself from the roof.  
  
Fearful symmetry, that was. Both slayers willfully falling to their respective deaths. But hadn't all of that withered away during her respite in heaven? So easy to claim innocence for those past indiscretions. To lay all the guilt on "that girl", the one who died, the one who atoned for her sins in self-sacrifice. This girl, shiny and new yet old beyond reckoning, was just trying to stay between the lines as the car lumbered past the "Welcome to Sunnydale" sign. Thoughts jumbling together incoherently yet making sense long enough to scream "no" in answer to the question of the day. This familiar driveway strengthening her resolve. Hadn't even turned the key in the ignition and Willow was already opening the driver's door.  
  
"Buffy-"  
  
"I've had a long, weird day, Will. I hope whatever you're about to say can be solved with a simple staking." Legs on solid ground, every step echoing her firm decision.  
  
"That would be nice, wouldn't it?" Tiny Willow smile. "But no, it can't. Buffy, there's someone here to see you."  
  
And there, standing on her porch, in front of the open door. "Miss Summers. As always, it's a pleasure to see you again."  
  
"I should have known you'd stop by. Hello, Quinton."  
  
  
  
  
  
TBC 


	6. Chapter 6

Apologies: To any of you who are still paying attention to this one, my apologies. It has been months between chapters. My only excuse is that same old headache for any fic writer: Real Life. This chapter is un-beta'd, so readers beware!  
  
Disclaimers and story info located at Chapters 1 and 4.  
  
  
  
  
  
Strange, how the little things happen almost unconsciously. Must have been channeling her mom when she offered Quinton a chair in the living room (not the couch, for Christ's sakes), stupidly asking if he would like something to drink. He refused both, settling instead for standing in the entry, and apologizing that he must be so brief.  
  
"Early retirement."  
  
"What?" Buffy had been severely overusing the word during the past few hours. *Today's Sesame Street has been brought to you by the color yellow, the number two, and the word 'what'.*  
  
"That's what I've come to offer; retirement from your active duties. Another slayer will be sent here for you to train."  
  
"What's the matter, you guys run out of Watchers?"  
  
"Hardly. May I be perfectly frank?"  
  
"Please do."  
  
"You've outlived nearly all previous slayers. To do so requires a certain amount of resourcefulness, cunning, and strength that the Council wants passed on. Ironically, it is due to your original failure in facing the Master that we are presented with this unique opportunity: having a seasoned slayer available to train new ones."  
  
"New ones, as in more than one?"  
  
"I've left a proposal in your dining room which will explain everything."  
  
Buffy glanced into the next room. A blue folder lay atop a placemat on the table. Didn't the color mean something? Calming, healing? A desperate attempt at distraction? "All this and raise Faith's baby?"  
  
"The proposal outlines the benefits afforded to you, if you choose to do so. I would love to continue, but I've been here nearly an hour, and I do have other business to attend to. Please, do read the proposal. Go over it with an attorney, an accountant. When you've reached a decision, call me. There's a number on the inside cover. But keep in mind that I will be in Sunnydale for a mere forty-eight hours."  
  
"Great. I have two days to make the biggest decision of my life."  
  
"The laws of nature adhere to no man's schedule. Childbirth included. Thank you, Miss Summers, for your time." And he was gone; out through the front door she hadn't even closed. The entire day could be misconstrued as a vivid dream, were it not for the folder waiting on the dining room table.  
  
"Will?" She called. The girl seemed to materialize, but common sense reckoned that she had been in the kitchen throughout, bearing witness to a barely believable conversation. "Where's Dawn?"  
  
"She's staying over at Janice's, remember?"  
  
"Right. Can you have Xander and Giles pick you guys up? I need everyone to meet me at the Magic Box in an hour."  
  
"Sure. You okay?"  
  
"Been better." The slayer had already disappeared out the front door and into the night, blue folder in hand. Time for a talk with the most pragmatic of the Scoobies.  
  
* * * * *  
  
"You've seen the figures?" Anya questioned, although her inflection on the words was that of a statement.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And you're not sure what to do?" Again, a statement.  
  
"That's why I came here. To get your practical advice."  
  
"Exactly. Really there's only one question." Spoken so nonchalantly, almost to the point of irritation, but not quite.  
  
"Which is.?"  
  
"Do you want to die?" An actual question, spoken slowly, annunciated nearly to death.  
  
"Of course not."  
  
"All right. So take the deal."  
  
"That's it? Just "take the deal"?"  
  
"Yes. If you don't want to die, take the deal. I mean, you'd almost be a Watcher. And look at how long they live. Although you may wind up getting knocked in the head on a regular basis."  
  
"There. See? How does adopting Faith's baby fit into that?"  
  
"That was sarcasm. The new slayer would bring her own watcher, who would be getting the knocks in the head."  
  
"I know. But what it comes down do is: can I adopt a child?"  
  
"Most humans raise children. You'll do fine. Besides, do you think the Watchers' Council would do better?" Silence fell for a moment, Buffy considering the demon's advice. So many of her major life decisions could be traced back to the words of a demon.  
  
Then came an all-to-eager request. "May I look at the figures one more time?" The slayer nodded, eliciting a grin from across the table. Anya leafed through the pages excitedly, nodding to herself, breaking only to repeat her suggestion.  
  
"Early retirement. Train slayers. Raise a child. Salary plus an unlimited expense account. Yes. Take the deal."  
  
"You think?"  
  
  
  
TBC 


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimers and story info located at Chapters 1 and 4.  
  
  
  
Here she was, less than twenty-four hours later, once again being unnecessarily led through the halls of the prison. The same clanking, buzzing, yelling, crying. The guard's shoes squeaking with each step, keys jangling, the smell of antiseptic, sickness, and pain growing stronger as they neared the infirmary. Last night with the Scoobies had been easy. Handing a signed proposal to Quinton and his lawyer at 4:00am - cake. This was the hard part. Walking through this maze of yellowed halls, ending up in front of the same door. Lies of omission waiting to be left out, sin of omission already having been committed. The Scooby Gang had a long-running history of lies and secrets; sometimes she thought it was the glue that held them together. It wasn't that simple with Faith.  
  
Back to the present situation. She smiled over her shoulder at the guard who was looking at her strangely - no lingering in front of sickroom doors. Deep breath. Turn knob. Open. to reveal a still-pregnant Faith, additional wires and tubes running from her body to various beeping machines.  
  
"What happened?" Buffy asked, closing the door behind her and quickly moving to stand beside the bed.  
  
"We're fine;" the younger slayer replied, attempting a weak smile, "getting ahead of schedule. C-section moved up to tomorrow morning. I think she's just anxious to get to Sunnydale."  
  
"So Quinton called?"  
  
"He was here this morning. Needed my signature next to yours. No backing out now." Bravado couldn't hide the doubt in those brown eyes.  
  
"Not an issue." Buffy assured, pulling the chair up close to the bed and taking a seat. Nervous little butterflies danced around in her gut. The girl in the bed was almost unrecognizable as the one she'd seen yesterday. Her face was puffy, pale, and glistening with sweat. The IV drip had become a flow, the hand that bore it, bruised purple at the point of insertion. The clear plastic tube led up to a clear plastic bag marked "MgSO4", hanging from a metal stand. Breathing was slow and heavy. "Are you sure you're okay?"  
  
"I have pre-eclampsia, but I'm going to be fine. So is the baby." The brunette stifled a yawn, all the while managing to look ashamed of the action. "Sorry. If I fall asleep mid-sentence, don't take it personally. I did it to Quinton earlier."  
  
"Ooh, I would love to have seen that." Had to give Faith credit for the swift change of subject. Note to self: read up on pre-eclampsia. "Fill me in about tomorrow."  
  
"Tomorrow morning. Eight o'clock." Another yawn. "I think Quinton arranged for early visiting hours, but that's about all I know. You'll have to call him for specifics." The girl's eyes had shut by the end of her sentence. Buffy sat for a moment, listening to Faith's breathing, taking her back to the last time she'd really heard it: Three AM in that dank little motel room. Static on the TV, under-sized air conditioner groaning loudly, couple next door arguing, musk of sweat hanging about -  
  
"I just fell asleep, didn't I?" Back to reality, pushing the past aside, focusing on the brunette of here and now.  
  
"That's okay. I should get going. But I'll see you in the morning." She got up and started for the door.  
  
"Buffy?" Came a small voice, the past crashing in again for a moment, remembering the same tone and inflection used on her name years ago, turning back before and seeing a sad and swollen face, words on the tip of her tongue but refusing to come out.  
  
"Thank you." Whispered this Faith, tears welling up in her eyes despite the smile on her face. Buffy smiled back and nodded before hurrying out the door, shutting away the recollections of two dead girls.  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
Buffy lay in the tub in the hotel bathroom with a wet washcloth over her eyes. Dawn was in the next room, undoubtedly consuming every sweet in the mini-fridge. The girl had been conspiring with Quinton. He'd arranged to have her flown out to L.A. The amount of time she and Dawn had spent on the phone with that man was disconcerting. But then again, this whole situation was bewildering. This whole life. All three of them.  
  
Her sister had brought a backpack full of baby books, including one outlining the condition called pre-eclampsia. Plenty to think about, worry about. That was the point of spending the past hour in the tub. Wash the worries away. It didn't work, just gave the random thoughts swirling around the silence they needed to break into consciousness. Her meeting with Faith had been so brief; the memory of it was blurred and fading. But that moment, that remembered moment, of a previous life within a previous life, long forgotten. that was disconcerting. Disorienting. Disheartening. Disillusioning.  
  
Buffy sighed heavily and got up, stepped onto the bathmat and dried herself off. She changed into her pajamas quickly and opened the bathroom door to reveal Dawn, sitting in the middle of one giant bed. Surrounded with cellophane wrappers.  
  
"We just ate." The blonde commented as she climbed onto the other bed.  
  
"Yeah, but how often do I get Belgian Chocolate Truffles?" Her sister managed to get around a mouthful of candy.  
  
"You know those things are probably ten dollars a piece?"  
  
"They don't come with the room?"  
  
Buffy's raised eyebrows conveyed the needed answer. "Oh." She replied, somewhat abashedly, gathering the noisy little wrappers and placing them in the trash. "What does it matter anyway? The Council's paying."  
  
"They're not our personal piggy bank."  
  
"I know. Just think of it as back pay for a job that got you killed. Twice." Dawn handed the remote to her sister before getting under the covers and switching off the little bedside lamp. She tossed and turned for a few moments, searching for the sweet spot in an unfamiliar bed, while Buffy flipped through the channels at an alarming pace, searching for distraction.  
  
"Isn't it weird that by this time tomorrow we'll be at home, with a new baby?" The younger Summers asked amidst her pillow fluffing.  
  
"A little bit."  
  
"I think Mom would be proud."  
  
Buffy looked over at her sister and smiled, as the last shred of doubt left her mind. "Me, too."  
  
  
  
  
  
TBC 


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimers and story info located at Chapters 1 and 4.  
  
It was the sound of Dawn mumbling in her sleep that rose an awareness in the slayer. She was still awake. A quick glance at the clock revealed the time as 2:17am. Buffy kicked off the covers and walked over to the sliding glass door. She opened it slowly and silently, so as not to disturb her sister. Stepping onto the small balcony, she closed the door in the same fashion, and moved forward the three paces to the guardrail, leaned on her forearms, and looked out on the city lights.  
  
"Mind if I smoke?" Buffy looked to her left and was startled to see a woman on the next balcony, standing in much the same position, a cigarette in hand.  
  
"Not at all." She replied. The woman's profile was illuminated briefly with the flame of her match. She looked to be in her thirties, pretty, with shoulder-length brown hair. She wore nothing but an over-sized t- shirt, which proved blue before the match went out. Buffy closed her eyes and inhaled deeply as the scent of the freshly lit cigarette wafted over.  
  
"You want one?" The woman asked, chuckling softly.  
  
"No, thanks. I used to date a smoker. I'd forgotten how sweet it smells that first second."  
  
The woman nodded, taking a drag and indicating the full ashtray perched on the rail. "I've gone through half a pack in the past few hours. Just an excuse to come outside. I keep thinking I'll be able to see my house from here. And my daughter."  
  
"You live that close?"  
  
"Twenty miles. But hey - stranger things have happened."  
  
"True."  
  
"So are you from out of town, or do you also enjoy vacationing a stone's throw from home?"  
  
"Out of town. I'm from Sunnydale."  
  
"Then I take it you're on a much-needed vacation."  
  
"Actually, no. I'm adopting a baby." Felt weird to say the words out loud. Especially to a stranger.  
  
"Congratulations. My daughter is adopted. Trust me, the second you see her, you'll love her like she were your own blood."  
  
Buffy smiled softly, gleaning some comfort from the words of encouragement. "Thank you. That almost makes me feel slightly less nervous."  
  
"Tomorrow the big day?"  
  
"Crack of dawn."  
  
"Hmm." The woman pondered, tossing her butt over the rail. Buffy watched the speck of red as it fell seven stories. "You know, that hospital won't be equipped to clean up a slayer's blood."  
  
Jumping back from the rail, Buffy's turned immediately to her left. The next balcony was empty. No woman. No ashtray. Not even the lingering smell of smoke. Her mouth went dry, and she hurried inside, throwing on the light and looking for her purse.  
  
"What's wrong?" Dawn asked, sitting up in bed and rubbing the sleep from her eyes.  
  
"I don't know. Something." She reached the desk and her sensible, Mom-ish black bag. Turning it upside-down, she rummaged through its contents.  
  
"Did something happen?"  
  
"I was talking to a woman on the balcony. She said something about 'slayer's blood', and then she wasn't there anymore. She just. disappeared." The little slip of paper was suddenly in her hand. It had been received and folded over two years and twenty purses ago, but the numbers were still legible. She picked up the phone and began to dial.  
  
"Are you calling Giles?"  
  
"I have another Watcher in mind."  
  
"Do you really think he'd help? I mean, with Faith?"  
  
"Let's hope so."  
  
  
  
TBC 


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimers and story info located at Chapters 1 and 4.  
  
Wesley Wyndam-Pryce sat in an armchair in his living room, glass of scotch in hand, TV illuminating his unshaven face. He was seriously considering ordering a "Pure Soul" CD by phone, when it rang shrilly. It had been months since he'd heard the sound without the end result having been a damn telemarketer, but they usually didn't call this late. He dreaded to think it might be Lilah, that she'd sunk so low as to call him on the phone, but that wasn't her style. She just showed up on his doorstep when she wanted to fuck. And he wouldn't allow himself to so much as entertain the notion of who it might be, who he secretly needed it to be.  
  
"Cut the foreplay, Wesley." The former watcher muttered, removing the phone from its cradle and bringing it to his ear. He cleared his throat, out of necessity or habit, he honestly couldn't remember. Nor could he tell whether the pain from doing so was real or imagined.  
  
"Hello?" He asked.  
  
"Wesley?" Came a familiar voice, a relic from times past, a long-ago life. "Wesley, is that you?" Trick question.  
  
"Yes. Hello, Buffy." His mind spun slightly, curious as to whether or not she knew what had happened, if she'd called to give voice to the silent condemnation he'd received over the past months.  
  
"Oh, good. I need your help." He wondered what it was like to live in a world where pleasantries existed. "Can you meet me?" She continued.  
  
"That depends. Where are you?" Scrambling for a pen and paper, Wes wrote down the name of the hotel; it wasn't far. "I'll be there in thirty minutes."  
  
"See you then." Click. Conversation over. Happened so quickly; his responses automatic. If he'd had time to think, it may have gone differently. Or not. He'd been a Watcher, or one in training, for years. It may not be possible for him to refuse a request to aid the active slayer. A jarring tone shook him out of his reverie, a reminder that he still held the receiver in his hand. Returning it to the cradle, he drained his glass of scotch, unsure if it was his first or second glass, and how full it (they) had been. Wandered into his bedroom to change into a fresh shirt. One not rumpled from hours of sitting in the armchair. He decided to brush his teeth, although he doubted it would fool a breathalyzer, or a slayer.  
  
Exactly twenty-eight minutes later the former Watcher strode through the hotel lobby toward a petite blonde who had risen to her feet. The undisguised hope written across her face quickly turned to a kind of shocked horror, the closer he got to her table. The stubble on his face just didn't extend far enough down his neck.  
  
"Wesley, God, what happened?" The slayer asked, nodding to the chair across the table and sitting down hard. Her eyes hadn't moved from the shiny connective tissue below his chin.  
  
"You haven't heard?" He asked, a little too casually, while taking a seat. "Had my throat slit. Nasty business. Rather not talk about it."  
  
Buffy nodded, grimacing slightly, and that cinched it. He would do whatever the girl asked of him. Hers was the first look of concern he'd seen on a familiar face since. There was almost a flicker of emotion in his dark eyes. Almost.  
  
"So what can I do for you?"  
  
She took a deep breath. "Faith's pregnant. Quentin's arranged for me to adopt the baby, which is what I'm in town to do, but I had a- I don't know. A dream, or something, tonight, and I think she's in trouble." Buffy trailed off, noticing how Wesley's eyes had glazed over. "I recognize that look. I wore it all day yesterday."  
  
He blinked in response, focusing on the woman on the other side of the table. "I'm sorry. I just- Faith? Pregnant? It seems to be an epidemic among those you'd least suspect, doesn't it?"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
With this response he realized it was quite possible that Buffy had absolutely no knowledge of the events of the past six months. Which suited him just fine. But he'd heard this tune before. He'd memorized the words. Familiar territory. "We were taught that slayers could not have children. Of course, we were also taught that there could be only one. Now what of this dream?"  
  
"Let me give you the slightly less abridged version." Buffy started with Faith's letter, and ended with the disappearing girl on the balcony, including her deal with Quentin and the Council. Wesley merely sat with his hands folded in his lap, listening patiently, face unreadable.  
  
When she'd finished, he leaned forward, interest piqued, voice dropped to a whisper. "This girl on the balcony, you've no clue as to who she may be?"  
  
"Well, I have a clue, but not a sane one."  
  
"It sounds as if she's a future version of yourself."  
  
"I'm glad you said it first. But that's not possible, right?"  
  
"It's certainly not impossible, but I doubt that an older you has time- traveled to deliver an extremely vague warning. It must be a portent."  
  
"An awake one?"  
  
"Perhaps you've merely sublimated a key detail that your subconscious wants you to remember."  
  
"Which is.?"  
  
"Quentin is sending you slayers to train."  
  
"Yes." The word came slowly as warning lights flashed in her brain; they'd gone unnoticed the day before.  
  
"But the only way for a new slayer to be called-"  
  
"Is for the previous one to die. Damn it!"  
  
"The Council has already made two attempts on her life."  
  
"And I'll just be walking out of there, baby in tow, leaving Faith unprotected."  
  
"Exactly."  
  
"God, how could I be so stupid?" Before he realized what he was doing, Wesley had reached across the table and covered her hand with his own, only to remove it as if he'd touched hot coals.  
  
"They're masters of deception," he muttered, returning his hand to his lap, "you're not the first they've fooled." He got to his feet quickly, a guilty look on his face. "I'll go to my car, make a call, see what I can do." He was gone before Buffy could reply, leaving her to wonder what had happened to her former watcher.  
  
  
  
TBC 


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimers and story info located at Chapters 1 and 4.  
  
Wesley hit the END button on his cell phone, and let it slip from his hand to the passenger seat. He stared out the windshield, bringing a hand to his throat and fingering his scar, a little habit he'd picked up. He remembered what it had been like to lay in the grass, bleeding out, gripping desperately at consciousness, all the while unable to move or make a sound. That same feeling was taking over this moment, the helplessness, knowing he'd just made a deal with the devil to ensure the safety of a woman who'd tortured him nearly to death. Part of him wished he could undo his years of training, to cease to care about the plight of the slayers. If that was the case, he could have hung up when he'd heard Buffy's voice on the other end of the line, could have continued his bleak little existence, walking the line. In a few short minutes, with one phone call, he had obliterated it completely.  
  
There was not a doubt in his mind that Lilah would come through. There seemed to be no limit to the power Wolfram & Hart possessed. The bastards held sway in multiple dimensions. But now they held sway over him. Lilah had ended the conversation with an ominous, "Don't think this is a freebie." He tried to ignore that little thread of excitement welling up, the desire to say "sod off" to the Council, his father and Angel Investigations, to desert his post entirely. The concept was more than appealing; it virtually called out to him. Had since the day Lilah brought over Dante's Inferno and made him an offer. He'd fucked her for a taste of what it would be like; surprised the hell out of him when he'd let her come back for more. Wondered if this was what it felt like, how long Faith had teetered before she'd tumbled.  
  
But the situation at hand: a slayer sat waiting inside those doors, expecting his help with no knowledge of his moral ambiguities, or their cause. He opened the car door and stepped out, squinting a bit against the direct glow from the parking lot lamppost. Each step back toward the hotel's revolving doors strengthened his resolve to aid the slayers, to the end if necessary. And at all possible.  
  
The slayer watched Wesley walk back to the table, baited breath, noting that his gaze was fixed on the floor. He did not look up until he was actually seated, lips straightening from their perpetual frown; obviously a half-assed attempt at a smile. But that was enough. Buffy took a deep breath, realizing that she'd been holding it.  
  
"Well?" She asked, eyes searching his face.  
  
"The guards outside Faith's hospital room will be ours, in addition to some staff back at the prison infirmary. They will be somewhat less than human."  
  
"I'm impressed. Glad you have friends in high places."  
  
Wesley nearly laughed.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Slayer sense was a strange thing. Like that sound that couldn't be explained, that no one else could hear. Not a hum or a buzz. More of a steady vibration. Its meaning was unmistakable: slayer. She'd shrugged it off with Kendra, but when Faith came along, she understood. They'd put it to the test a couple of times in years past, taking turns tracking each other through cemeteries. Faith could always feel her coming a mile away. Buffy hadn't felt it until they'd pulled into the parking lot.  
  
She'd just stepped into the waiting room, Dawn and Wesley in tow, when a man in purple scrubs approached.  
  
"Ms. Summers." He stated. Buffy nodded and shook his hand. "My name's David. I'm Faith's nurse. I'll show you to her room." David asked Buffy's companions to have a seat, then led her partway down the hall before pulling her aside. "I should apprise you of her condition first."  
  
"Is everything okay?"  
  
"Faith came in a few hours ago because her blood pressure was dangerously high. The doctors were afraid that she could start having seizures, so they performed an emergency C-section."  
  
"Jesus."  
  
"The surgery went fine, Faith's stable. She's asking for you."  
  
"And the baby?"  
  
"In the nursery. Beautiful baby girl; seven pounds, seven ounces. You should name her Lucky."  
  
At this Buffy unwittingly broke into a grin. "I don't know about that."  
  
David motioned for the slayer to follow. Easier said than done. She felt like she was walking through water as he led her around the corner and down the hall. Couldn't miss which room was Faith's: two armed guards stood on either side of the door.  
  
One of them gave a knowing nod and propped the door open.  
  
"So you made it." Came a voice from within the darkened room, "Couldn't come straight up, you had to tour the hospital first?"  
  
The blonde shook her head and smiled, entering the room. The door swung closed, and she made her way to the side of the bed by the light coming in from under the door. "That is disturbing on so many levels."  
  
"Don't I know it."  
  
"We couldn't find the cafeteria," she explained while pulling up a chair, "and Wesley needed coffee."  
  
"Wes is here?"  
  
"I needed a ride." Buffy sat down and took Faith's hand into her own. She was getting used to seeing Faith in a hospital bed. Tubes and wires were almost appendages. Buffy couldn't rationalize the idea that this girl was now a mother. Or that the baby wouldn't know her mother.  
  
Buffy took a deep breath, determined to make words come out of her mouth.  
  
Suddenly the brunette pulled her hand away. "Don't. Just. don't." She muttered. "I shouldn't have asked you to come up here. I need to sleep. They keep giving me drugs, but I still can't sleep. My head is pounding and I feel kind of."  
  
"What?" The blonde asked, focusing on Faith's averted eyes. They were red and swollen; she'd been crying.  
  
"I don't know. Whatever. I'm tired. She's down at the nursery. You need to sign the papers."  
  
"Faith-"  
  
"Don't make this harder." The brunette whispered, her eyes brimming with tears. "It's not your fault, I just can't see you right now. Please leave."  
  
"Okay." Buffy acquiesced. "Get some rest. But I'll be back tomorrow."  
  
Faith nodded and closed her eyes, and the slayer left the room. She started to walk down the hall, then turned and approached the two armed guards. They did not meet her gaze, just continued to stare straight ahead. They looked human enough, but Buffy had been a slayer long enough to know that appearances are sometimes deceiving.  
  
"You know who I am?" She asked them quietly. The two "men" looked at each other, then back at Buffy and nodded.  
  
"Good. Then you know I'm not kidding when I say I'll have your asses if anything happens to Faith."  
  
TBC 


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimers and story info located at Chapters 1 and 4.  
  
Wesley sat in the waiting room, listening to Dawn's gentle snoring and wondering what was going on down the hall between the slayers. Forgiveness was tricky, he knew all too well, but Faith seemed to have a lock on it. Hell, she'd sadistically tortured him for hours, yet he'd asked after the girl following each of Angel's visits. He hadn't been lying when he'd told her that there were failings on both parts. Still had the newspaper clippings regarding Professor Worth's murder stowed away in a shoebox. Later articles reporting Faith's activities in Sunnydale and Los Angeles had been added. Wesley hadn't lifted that lid in well over a year, but kept the box in his bottom dresser drawer beneath his jeans, a nearly daily reminder of the damage he'd caused. There'd been a small write-up the day after he was found bleeding into the grass. He'd thought about adding it, seemed fitting, but he'd never done so. Wondered why.  
  
Wesley was shaking his head, marveling at his knack for self-flagellation, when Buffy appeared at the end of the hall. Her gait was a bit unsteady, fingertips touching the wall with each step, as if she struggled for balance. He got to his feet and their eyes met, hers rimmed in red and heavy with unshed tears.  
  
"Is everything all right?"  
  
"Yeah," she said, clearing her throat as she sat down next to her sister, "it's just an emotional day."  
  
"I understand."  
  
"Buffy?" Came Dawn's groggy voice, "What time is it?"  
  
The slayer smiled and reached out to smooth her sister's hair. "Hey, sleepyhead. It's about time for us to take Baby Summers home." Wesley looked on and felt a guilty twinge of envy at the hug the girls shared, then took a few steps away, leaned against the wall, and stretched out his back.  
  
"So you saw her?" asked Dawn excitedly.  
  
The slayer nodded.  
  
"And? What's she look like?"  
  
"Like... a baby?"  
  
"Seriously. Your powers of observation astound me."  
  
"She's... tiny. She's got little feet and little hands. Hell of a grip. Has slayer potential."  
  
Wesley looked on with unabashed curiosity at the transformation that was taking place before his eyes. Buffy's entire demeanor was changing: she sat up straighter, dropped and relaxed her shoulders, and widened her eyes. Her voice took on a tone of near reverence, and her eyes crinkled in the corners, like individual smiles.  
  
"She's all wrinkly and pink with a little bit of brown hair. She's beautiful."  
  
"And she's okay? I mean, she's healthy?"  
  
"She's perfect. But there's a neonatal nurse who's going to come with us, help out for a bit."  
  
"How's Faith?" Wesley asked.  
  
Buffy looked up, a bit surprised, as if she'd forgotten he existed. He knew the feeling.  
  
"Depressed and weepy. I wasn't in there for too long; she asked me to leave."  
  
"I can't imagine how difficult this day must be for her."  
  
"Yeah. I just, I don't know, got a weird vibe."  
  
"Meaning?"  
  
"She said she couldn't sleep, and she seemed kind of spacey. It's probably all the meds, but... You're staying, right?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
"Just watch her, will you? Not just, you know, but-"  
  
"Understood."  
  
Buffy got to her feet and wiped the corners of her eyes. "Okay. You ready?"  
  
Dawn stood and nodded, grinning wildly. "Yeah. You gonna come meet her, Wesley?"  
  
"Think I'll pass. I'm not good with babies."  
  
"Sure?"  
  
Wesley nodded and returned to his garish orange chair.  
  
"Keep me posted." Buffy said before she and Dawn turned to walk down the hall.  
  
"You too." He called after them. The slayer looked over her shoulder, mouthing the words "thank you" before disappearing around the corner.  
  
TBC 


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimers and story info at Chapters 1 and 4.

Faith stood before the window and watched as the night sky began to lighten. The cold continued to seep in as Buffy moved farther away from the hospital. She closed her eyes and waited a few more moments until that slayer sense went dead. They'd passed out of range. Faith put a hand to her head in an attempt to prevent it from exploding. Too many thoughts. It was only a few hours ago that she'd given birth, but all evidence was disappearing. Connective tissue was already working its way over her incision; slayer healing was back with a vengeance. She wasn't sure that it would. Return to form. Slaying's what she was built for, not motherhood. Being a slayer, she knew. Prisoner, she'd always been somewhat prepared for. But this...

It was the right decision. Mothers were the ones who had the house and the community and the friends to help. The familiar old jealousy reared its head suddenly, and in all its glory. To think that after all these years of coveting what was Buffy's, it had ended like this. Poetic justice.

Faith hadn't even held her daughter... But it was better. Everything she'd ever touched turned to shit anyway. Bad enough the poor kid had spent all those months in her body. But didn't a steady exposure to poison give you immunity? She resisted the urge to put her hand on her stomach. Enough torture for one day. Not that it mattered. It could all be pushed right out of her head if she tried. Years of practice. Just focus on something else. Anything else. Like that tired old memory - the good one, the best one. The pair of jeans with holes in the crotch and ass pockets that are just too comfortable to get rid of.

Three AM in her dank little motel room. Faith laying on her side, facing the window, and pretending to sleep. It was that moment, that subtle shift that she'd clung to all these years: the instant she'd realized that Buffy was watching her sleep. Didn't matter that Faith had really been awake, that Buffy had silently dressed and left minutes later, or the hiding-Angel-bullshit Faith had learned the next day. The memory just boiled down to the fact that, albeit briefly, Buffy had cared. Faith had held onto that knowledge for dear life over the past nine months, counting on it when she'd wrote her letter, and replaying it in a loop all night after Buffy had stormed out of the prison infirmary. It was almost always in the back of her mind. Not the short-lived friendship or even those fleeting nights spent in her bed, but the fact that once upon a time she, Faith, broken and fucked-up, had inspired someone to give a shit.

Faith looked up at the sound of her door opening, and smiled dimly at Nurse David.

"How you holding up?" He asked.

Faith shrugged and turned back to the window. "Could use a smoke."

"Against hospital policy."

"Damn."

"But..." Faith turned to see him emerging from the bathroom, big grin on his face.

"I'm making a little concession. There's a Winston and a lighter in there for you. Just close the door and turn the shower on hot, full blast. The steam eats the smell."

"Kick ass. That's the best news I've had all day."

"Here's a topper: that special little item we talked about is on the counter."

"I stand corrected."

"But remember, mum's the word. I was never here."

"Your secret's safe with me."

"Well, I better get. You've been, by far, my least difficult patient."

"Thanks."

David nodded and made a hasty retreat, closing the door behind him. Faith took another long look out the window. She pulled the IV out of her hand, wiped up the little bit of blood with the hem of her hospital gown, then shut herself in the bathroom and turned on the shower. The mirror fogged up within moments, and she lit her cigarette, sat on the toilet seat and took a deep drag, all the while gazing at the scalpel lying on the counter.

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimers and story info located at Chapters 1 and 4. Additional warning: this chapter is very dark and possibly disturbing. Don't say I didn't warn you!

The guards looked shifty. That's what Wesley kept telling himself to justify why he had moved from a chair in the waiting area to one in the hall outside Faith's room. It had been about an hour since Buffy, Dawn, and Baby Summers had left, Sunnydale bound. No doubt Quinton had arranged for a flight. The Council had a small fleet at their disposal. He'd flown over the Atlantic himself, in a private jet, a few years prior, when he'd first been assigned to active duty as Watcher. Comfy thing. Plenty of leather, full bar – liquid courage. He could use some right about now. He'd been working up the nerve to enter that room and check on the woman who'd given birth just this morning. But he wasn't sure what to expect. Would she be weepy, sullen, angry? Suddenly Wesley got out of the chair, walked past the demon-guards, and into her room. He squinted immediately against the light; the shades were pulled up and the sun was beating down, full-force. He blindly stepped further into the room, hearing the door click as it closed. As his eyes adjusted Wesley took stock: the bed was empty. A few drops of red glared on the white sheet next to the discarded IV needle. Walking toward the windows, Wesley noted that they did not open, but merely consisted of a single pane of glass. A knot of anxiety grew steadily in his gut as he turned around. The bathroom door was closed shut.

"Faith?" He called quietly.

No answer.

"Faith?" He tried again, louder this time, but only slightly as not to alert the guards. No answer. No movement. Not the barest noise from within. At this point anxiety turned to cold fear, freezing all the way down his spine, spreading out and forward from his lower back and reaching around to grab his heart. This was the moment, the one frozen, hours in an instant.

Open the door to find the bathroom empty, note on the counter, probably to the effect of "screw that"; she'd escaped.

Open the door to find her laying in wait, porcelain slab from the toilet tank gripped in both hands, raised in the air, slamming home and crushing skull the moment he passed through the doorway.

Open the door to find her writhing in pain, foaming at the mouth, Wolfram & Hart having spiked her IV or her scrambled eggs.

Wesley took only two steps forward and the smell hit him, fragrant and familiar. Couldn't work side-by-side with a vampire and not know that scent. He stumbled toward the door and tried the handle; it was locked. He took a few steps back and rushed; the full weight of his body hit and forced it open, feet skidded on the floor, skated across the tile until his waist intersected with the sink, head smashed into the mirror. Dazed for a second, his eyes moved downward to the shiny object reflecting against the drain, blade with a handle, silver scalpel all covered in red. A slow glance to his right and he vomited the morning's coffee on top of the mess in the basin.

Faith was crumpled on the floor, inner arms smiling widely from wrists to elbows, muscle and tendon exposed on both, white bone visible on the left. He dropped harshly to his knees, pain registering somewhere in the back of his mind, a soft splashing sound echoing in the tiny room. Blood thickly coated a good portion of the floor, splattered the wall, smeared across the toilet's lid, and soaked into the roll of toilet paper. His hand gripped her face, turned it towards him; red prints smudged the sweat on her pasty white cheeks. Wesley put his head down to listen. No breath. Index and middle finger marked up her neck; pulse barely noticeable. Wesley reached out and grasped the handrail mounted on the wall and used it to pull himself off of his knees. Feet sliding again in the blood, one hitting Faith's right arm, forcing a bit more red into the mix. Flat-palmed, he slammed a hand against the emergency button on the wall and dropped down again, wrapped his hand tightly around the gaping right forearm, tilted her chin back and breathed into her open mouth, once (one-and-two-and-three-and-four-and), twice. Ear down to listen. Nothing.

"Jesus Christ." Came a voice from the doorway, white sneakers, now tipped in red, skidding and slipping, more voices, more shoes, a hand on his arm, removing it from Faith's. Thick fingers wrapped around the slayer's bare ankles and slid her body across the floor; her hair fanned out and made tiny trails in the puddle. She was in the doorway when they lifted her, and blood rained down from her brunette locks. Wesley turned and vomited again into the tiny plastic wastebasket. He sat down on the toilet lid and gagged as he realized that blood was seeping into the knees of his pants. He wondered suddenly and irrationally if, with all the transfusions during surgery, any of this blood was even Faith's.

A kind but frantic face filled his field of vision. Mouth moved with no sound. Nurse in multi-colored scrubs with pictures of storks carrying little bundles of baby. She grabbed his upper arms, slight pressure, and reality snapped back into place. His ears were assaulted by raised voices, screeching monitors and machines from without, and then by the woman in front of him.

"What happened? How long has she been like this?"

"I found her," Wesley croaked, amazed that his vocal cords were functional, "less than two minutes ago." The nurse nodded and stood and moved to the doorway, hands on the walls to keep from slipping. How much blood was on the floor, the sink, the wall? A liter? Two? How much could one lose and still survive? He should know, he'd been told not that long ago. How much had he lost in those hours on the grass? Seemed like less, but a slayer's constitution was different. She'd been close to death before and managed to pull through.

"Let's get you out of here. You need to be looked at." The nurse was in front of him again, fingers under his chin, tilting his head slightly. "What happened to your head there?"

"I slipped..." Wesley muttered, and the nurse followed his gaze to the shattered mirror.

"Let me get a wheelchair. Just a minute."

"I'm fine-" Wesley started, but as he got to his feet the world shifted, pain in his head, knees gave, floor moved from horizontal to vertical. The nurse turned around just in time to see Wesley's face collide with the tile.

TBC


End file.
